A collective of women assumed 
an adventure of choice
for all seasons and engaged in writing
 and sharing their wisdom
as they turned, turned, turned
in the sun, in the cover of the moon,
in their silken robes with swirls of satin
ribbons blowing around them, like the
cascading myrtle swaying
from the ancient portico
that stood outside their meeting room,
a humble reminder of the peace
they craved like sweet honey on
warm bread.
Heads covered in golden saffron dyed scarves
they assembled in secret, speaking in whispers
that floated across the universe.  The women
sat in a circle on a dirt floor and wrote the
Book of Ecclesiastes.
Grace etched out the words that flowed from
caring hands and elegant minds onto
perfectly bespoken papyrus, in a
realization of changing times
that challenged the olive tree to flower,
the red-tailed hawk to soar above
transcendental echoes. They crafted
their words with ambivalent meanings,
perpetual motion, wiser than Solomon.
When finished the women knew
it was time to dance under the
wide brimmed cedar.